An Irish Wind

Chapter Fourteen - A Long Way from Home

There was a touch of bitterness about the wind above deck, almost like the winds that I recalled from back home in Ireland.  Whilst it was no longer dark, the sun had yet to rise and there were only a few deck hands at work and a quartermaster at the wheel.  There were no officers or mid-ship-men about which I've always found odd.  Aboard The Grace, Mick alternated which hours the crew were on deck for and day and night there was an equal amount of bodies above deck.  I suppose it's slightly different as Mick wasn't always sailing in the safest of waters and there was always the chance that we might have come across someone like Kat Devlin.  I still thought there might have been an officer or two awake to ensure the smooth sailing of the ship though.  After all, the ship did not weigh anchor once the officers and James had retired for the evening.  

The new found respect I had meant that I could wander anywhere I liked and faced no questioning or fruitive looks.  The quartermaster acknowledged me with a curt nod as I passed him on my way up to the poop deck where I leaned over the railings and watched the whitewater forming in the ship's wake.  Knowing that my decision was made I was keen to impart my information and get it all over with, but it appeared I would have to wait until James had risen.  I certainly wasn't going to knock on his cabin door at that time of the morning because I wasn't sure what mood took him at such a time of day. I recalled with fondness how some of Mick's crew were unapproachable until around midday when they'd eaten and had a drink of small ale or rum.  

I really was a long way from home I realised as I glanced up from the whitewater and stared out at the ocean which flowed on until it met the horizon.  There was no land in sight, and yet again I wondered if James planned to make port soon, because they must surely be low on supplies.  Mick made port every few months, and I think the longest we spent at sea was three months in total.  Mick always had something he could sell, whether it be cloths or jewellery or information.  That was how he'd built up such a name for himself.  No one ever had a bad word to say about him though.  He never crossed anyone and if a negotiation ever got ugly he backed out or gave in.  He was clever though, because when such a respect was earned it was hard to dispel it.  People were prepared to pay more for Mick's goods or services because he was well trusted and liked.

That was something I missed about Ireland.  Where I grew up, everyone knew everyone and there was on odd sense of trust about the community.  No one liked newcomers but there was a reluctant respect for the English soldiers garrisoned nearby.  They'd been there for so long and were often helpful in their own way towards the local people.  It wasn't uncommon to see them laughing jovially as young children badgered them with questions before being hastily shuffled along by nervous mothers.  I missed the friendliness of home more than I'd ever thought I would.  Even when sailing with Mick and his Irish crew, we missed things so unique to Ireland even though most of us had no intentions of ever returning home again.  

Perhaps I might explain it better; in that if you are ever far from home and you hear a voice with an accent so like your own you automatically have an affinity with that person.  You feel connected by your place of birth even though you've never met.  It's more than likely true for everyone, but I always felt it if I met someone from Ireland.  There was always some form of camaraderie because the Irish are a people who have been mistreated the world over.  Naturally we all band together in times of need.  I really was a long way from Ireland, sailing on a Royal Navy ship captained by an entitled Englishman.  I don't think my father would have been very pleased.  He was very patriotic, and his distaste for England was only increased when my uncle was adopted and sent to London. I don't think for a second that he'd have been at all happy, but I'd kept myself alive somehow and was still poised for a fight should it ever come to that.  Both he and my mother would be proud to see me overcome such trials, but they were not here to see it at all.  Strangely I was alight with that.  My mother had a nervous disposition, usually amplified when English soldiers would march past my father's offices back home.  My father though would have enjoyed sitting by the fire whilst I told him about all of my escapades.  It had been him after all,who had taught me to read at a young age and had told me such wondrous stories before he sent me to bed each night.